The Costume
by Rdr2
Summary: Angela Marshair copes with the loss of her beloved Jedi Master by making herself a new set of clothes. COMPLETE


_**Character Sketch, Angela Marshair: "The Costume"**_

_Timeline:_ 33 years after the Battle of Yavin

Angela Marshair stood alone in her quarters. The Jedi kept their home sparse, with few personal effects. All she had were duplicates of her customary homespun tunic and trousers, several green outer tunics, a green cloak, and a single pair of boots. She did not even own her own datapad or any other item. The cot and small chest were there when she got the room, and the bed-sheets were changed every two weeks and thrown into a mass laundry basket. To the former noblewoman, the room did not feel personal. It did not feel of _her_. It was like standing in someone else's bedroom.

No wonder that she felt so warm and safe onboard the _Nebula Dancer_. Her Master had given her a private cabin when she became his apprentice, and over the years she had filled it with treasures and mementos gotten from a hundred adventures. She lost her virginity in a cabin that felt of her, that was infused with her essence. She and Ran had loved each other there, had spent long nights talking to each other, sharing not just their bodies but also their souls. Hearts, dreams, goals—they filled that cabin.

And now it was lonely. Ran died and took half of that pleasant warmth from the cabin they shared. The _Nebula Dancer_ began to feel less like home. And so she had returned here, to this barren place, trying to rekindle that warm feeling. But there was nothing to stoke the dying flame.

She had mourned Ran's death, cried for him as his student, his friend, and his beloved. Her tears stained her pillows, aged her in ways that time could not, left their bittersweet mark upon her face. She was only nineteen and she already felt like ninety. _Ran is dead_—it was a truth that haunted every waking moment had the power to still her heart.

The tunics—she had cut them in similar fashion to her slain Master's. It felt right to wear garments that matched her teacher's, for it showed that there was harmony between them. The only difference was that Ran's tunics had been blue. She clutched the green fabric to her breast, wishing tears would well up in her eyes; the laws of dramatics dictated that it would be a good time to cry. But she had shed her tears a long time ago. Her mourning was done, and only an emptiness in her aching heart remained.

It was time to move on.

She gathered the tunics, the homespun and the leathers, and threw them into a bag. Alone in the quiet of the night, she went to the incineration chambers, where the accumulated garbage was burned. Without a whisper or a word, without even a thought of what she was doing, she threw the bag into the fire and watched as the last physical memories of her beloved Master burn away.

"I miss you," she said quietly. "But you probably already know that."

The task was done, and all that remained was to move on.

The morning came, and she ordered a great amount of black wool and leather. They came to her quarters by mid-afternoon. With methodical, yet somehow mindless, care, she began her work. Tools that she had never once used felt familiar in her unpracticed hands. She cut and stitched, sewn and ripped. The hours passed fleetingly. Designs were used and discarded, scraps of black material tossed carelessly to the floor. Torn thread lay about like little hairs on a barber shop floor.

The next day passed. Strips of leather were left on her cot, demolished and mangled beyond recognition. Working clamps and leather cutters snapped from abuse. She cut her finger badly, but tamped the bleeding with a piece of synthflesh and judicious use of the Force. The pain lingered, a minor inconvenience, but one that she ignored. She returned to her work without preamble. It was almost as if she had never been disturbed in the first place.

The third day passed. She had not eaten in all that time, yet she ignored the rumblings of her belly and smiled. She was content with the boots she had cobbled. They were simple, but they fit her feet snugly, made for her and her alone. The night hours were spent cleaning them, polishing them, making them shine until she could see her face in their smooth, rounded surfaces. They were knee-length boots, flat-soled, and hugged her well-turned calves flatteringly. Ran would have loved to see her legs in them. He had been a foot person, and she thought back to the many nights he tormented her with pleasure by nibbling on her toes or kissing her thighs. The pain in her heart lessened.

The fourth day passed. Her trousers and tunic were finished, and they displayed her athletic body and small breasts to advantage. Humble in design—simple, stark black wool with few visible seams—the clothing made her feel mature beyond her years. They made her look strong, willful, proud—the markings of a born leader. They hinted at wisdom, told tales by the fireside of heroics done and adventures still to do. The tunic had a reversed L-shaped fold down the front, with the crux at the left shoulder. The longer line of the L-shape ran down to the tail of the tunic.

The fifth day passed. The utility belt fit snugly around her slim waist, all black leather, with the pouches made of a hardened version of the same. There were three pouches: one for her comlink and Aquata Breather, one for her glowrod and liquid cable dispenser, and one for her electrobinoculars. Each pouch was small, only slightly bigger than her palm. A lightsaber wheel clip was attached to the left side of the belt.

The sixth day passed. She ate and ate ravenously. Heads turned at her unladylike ways. But she paid them no mind. She did not wear the clothes she was making. Then she slept. And when she slept, she felt a calmness pervade her being, infusing her with serenity that she had not felt since Ran's death. A hand touched her shoulder, drawing her from her slumber. She had darkened the room, shut off the lights, but a faint blue glow—warm, inviting—suffused everything. She turned and gasped.

Ran Tonno-Skeve sat at the edge of her bed.

"Sorry to wake you, Angie," he said with that soft, mischievous grin that was his trademark. "I just wanted to talk with you one more time."

"Ran," she murmured sleepily. "Is this a dream? No, you're a Force spirit now, aren't you?"

He nodded. "Just for a little bit, yes. I'll become one with the Force again very soon. Like I said, I just wanted to talk." He stood and walked over to her desk, upon which lay the final pieces of her new clothes. He touched them lightly. "You're moving on."

"I have to," she said defensively. "I can't sit and cry for you all the time. I do, but that means that I love you. But eventually, I have to leave you behind and get on with my life."

"Which is good. I'm glad that you're starting to put the past behind you. I worried that you were clinging to me and making mistakes because of it. I worried that I would drag you down to hell and you wouldn't be able to come back." His ghostly blue hand caressed her cheek. It felt like a breath of warm air. His smile was full of life and energy—it was breathtaking. "I'm glad that you made it back."

She closed her eyes, letting the sensations of his return fill her and warm her. "What happens now?"

"I will go and you will move on. You might find a nice young man to settle down with or you might never feel love again. You might end up seeing the rest of the galaxy, or just stay here and teach. Who knows?"

"I don't want to teach, and I certainly don't want to take on any lover but you."

"So I thought of De-Lanna Tamaran, my first love. There were other girls, other women. You know that. But then there was you. When I first told you that I loved you, I knew in my heart that there would be no one else." Ran chuckled. "Clearly, there won't be anyone else."

Angela smirked at him. "I kind of thought that you would end up finding a nice dead Force spirit to hook up with and forget all about me," she said with a smile.

Ran touched her cheek again. "After you, there couldn't be anyone else," he said sincerely. "But you're still young, Angie. What I felt for you was a bond forged from years of being alive, from meeting all sorts of people, and falling in love several times—it was a bond made because I fell in love before, and knew for sure that you were my true one and only. I was your first love, and you're not even twenty yet. You have a long life ahead of you, and you'll find another, I'm sure of it."

"I don't want another," she repeated adamantly.

He smiled kindly. "You say that now. Tell me all about it when you come onto my side of the mortal coil. Call it a bet—six to one odds, you can't ask for better than that."

"Leave it to you to make a joke out of being dead."

Suddenly, he looked at her with intensity. Before now, she only saw that strength in his gaze when he held her, kissed her, made love to her. "I have to go, Angie. I love you, and I'm proud of the woman you've become. Whether it is from my tutelage, my love, or your own strength and will, you've become a greater Jedi Knight than I or any other. Move on, Angie—that will be your greatest trial yet."

He took her hand in his, and she watched as his shimmering form faded away.

The seventh day came, light shining through into her bedroom. She awoke and donned the clothes she had made over the past week. She tied her brown hair into a single ponytail that danced between her shoulder blades. She pulled on her trousers, tucked in her tunic, slipped into her boots, girded on her belt, pouches, and lightsaber. And then she stepped out of her room and emerged resplendent in her attire.

She took her first step, and she was moving on.


End file.
